


New Partners in Crime

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:50:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4808606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: shaw and root prompt: Frankie and Root start working together on a regular basis while Shaw is still missing. When Shaw gets back, she's weary of the two and doesn't like how close they are. She just got back, shouldn't Root want to be around her all the time? Shaw is put on desk duty while she's still recovering and all she hears over the comms is how week Frankie and Root work together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Partners in Crime

**Author's Note:**

> ONE HUNDREDTH PROMPT!!!!!!! *throws confetti*  
> ~  
> (If you're wondering why it says 99 works, it's because it counted the two-parter 'Proposal of Interest' as one work instead of two.)  
> ~

_Know the only thing worse than dying twice? Dying twice, being held captive for ten months, then coming back to a ghost town. Not that I expected a parade or anything. But I at_ least _thought I’d be reinstated to do the only thing I actually enjoy doing. Nothing says welcome home like the smell of gunpowder and the bright fireworks that shoot from the muzzles of semi automatics as they try to make swiss cheese of me. I at least deserve_ that _for dying, right?_

 _Apparently not_. Sameen Shaw hadn’t even been able to touch a gun since escaping Samaritan’s clutches; and it wasn’t for lack of trying. She yearned to stretch her out-of-use limbs. To run rampage through the city, gunning down New York’s finest criminals, and maybe grabbing a steak along the way.

Instead, she sits in the abandoned subway station her team uses for a hideout, forbidden to show her face outdoors. As the days stretch on, she can feel herself accelerating down the steep slope of insanity. Right after Shaw made a not-so clean cut from their nemeses, she was plopped down on desk duty. With nothing to do, Shaw has succumbed to counting the gravel pieces that fall from the far corners of the terminal as subway cars roar by only a wall or two away. She listens to the _drip drip drip_ of a leaky pipe as water falls to the shadows of the tracks. Every hour of the day. Every day of the week. With each drip, she finds herself wanting more and more to rip every pipe out of the ground with her bare hands, leaving the city a waterless wasteland.

 _Let them all leave,_ she spits spitefully, teeth grinding down to the gums.  _If they do, I’ll be able to step outside for once._

However, there is little she can do about the pipes, let alone the entire population of Manhattan. So, she sits back angrily in her plush chair, staring at strings of senseless numbers running across every computer screen. _While everyone is out there_ , Shaw fumes, _I’m stuck with the computers._

Vein bulging in her neck from all the unrelieved pressure building in her system, Shaw jams her thumb into a remote’s power button, and two large monitors whizz to life. Both play two different news stations, their anchors warring to be heard over the other.

Minimizing the rolling codes on one of the computer screens, Shaw pulls up a map, watching one little green orb pulse with light as it moves down computer generated streets.

* * *

 

_This is what I’ve been degraded too_ , Shaw seethes, smoke pouring from her ears like a four alarm fire.  _Watching an electronic green dot walk down a fabricated street._  She wants more than anything to have a gun. Just to clean it, to pull it apart and put it back together- no bullets necessary. But Harold put a red flag up on the idea, with John giving her a solid yellow.  _Sure, I may have almost accidentally shoved my knife through Harold’s jugular,_ Shaw mutters to herself bitterly.  _But he snuck up on me while I was asleep._

Even with the explanation, Shaw knows she’s been squirrelly lately. And she knows that it’s probably not the best idea for her to be in possession of a killing machine until she can tell the foe from the friend. Still, knowing it and willingly accepting it are two very different things. As far as acceptance goes, Shaw is about as understanding as a cobra being poked by a stick.

The thing that surprised her- and maybe even ticked her off most- was that Root agreed with Harold. Total red flag on all things sharp, shiny, and slaughterous. In fact, Root was the one that proposed the idea that Shaw remain at the station during the day. If it were anyone else, Shaw would have pinned them to the wall, hands on either side of their head as she braced to snap their neck. But since it was Root, Shaw settled for charging at her, talons outstretched, knowing that John would pull her back just in time.

The little green dot picks up speed, racing down the map’s streets and taking unplanned twists and turns down any alleyway possible. Shaw rips her phone from the desk with one hand, using the other to flip through every news station she can think of.

She dials.

It rings.

And rings.

Finally, it clicks, and the sound of wind surges into Shaw’s ear, loud as the rapids. “Hey,  _you_ ,” Root coos, voice spilling over with affection. “How’s my favorite prisoner?”

“I’m fine,” Shaw responds, not in the mood to discuss herself as she watches the green dot blinking and speeding along like a scared mouse running through a maze. “You?”

“Better, now that you called,” Root respond, the slight heave of heavy breathing creeping into her adoring tone. Shaw rolls her eyes, scolding herself for the heat that rushes to her ears. For once, she’s almost glad to be alone in the station where no one can see her.

“What are you running from,” Shaw demands, patience wearing thing. Partly to do with concern for the unknown, and partly to do with the fluster bubbling up in her stomach like boiling water.

“Are you  _spying_  on me, Sam?” Root asks, glee evident in her tone. The green dot stops moving, and Shaw’s head is filled with the sound of gunshots soaring by; gunfire as loud as sonic booms. Shaw hears a muffled ’ _oohf_ ,’ and rises to her feet at once, giving up on finding news coverage and throwing the remote back to the desk.

“I’m on my way,” Shaw informs her briskly, stalking to the subway cart’s locker. A nauseating seedling begins to grow in the pit of her stomach as she gets no reply, and she throws her trench coat on quickly.

“No!” Root exclaims at last. Shaw feels a rope loosening from her chest at hearing her voice, and her urgent walk slows to a grudging halt. “You need to stay put. We’re  _fine_.” From the background, a war zone makes the entire ground quake. “There’s just these four guys, and they’ve opened fire on us. They’re a terrible shot, but whatever they’re using hurts like a-”

More shots reverberate through the phone, their force ringing all the way down Shaw’s spine. Then, something much heavier hits her.

“Did you get  _sho_ -”

“It’s cause they’re hollow points,” a new voice tells Root, slightly muffled. It’s a little deeper, a little colder, and- slowly- a little more familiar.  _It’s that bounty hunter,_ Shaw thinks to herself, a bad taste in her mouth.  _What’s her name… Phillis? Franny?_  “Look,” she says, and there is the sound of material shifting and the slightest wince.

More bullets.

Silence.

“Root?” Shaw asks quietly, something like life and death hanging in the balance. There is a cough, and the sound of rubble shifting and a few, barely audible moans rising from the ground like malevolent spirits.

“Yes, Sweetie?” Root asks politely, as if she hadn’t just been in a gun fight.

“I’m hanging up,” Shaw responds blandly, not sure how to react, but knowing for certain expressing her relief is not an option. Just as she takes the phone from her ear, she catches the vanishing sound of an _‘I’ll see you soon.’_

____________\ If Your Number’s Up /___________

Shaw swivels in Harold’s rolling chair just as two sets of high heels echo into the station. Their patterns are irregular- one a cross between sluggish steps and a hurried scuttle; the other the  _‘th-thump’_  of a bad limp.

Curious, Shaw peeks her head from around the subway cart’s door. She hadn’t checked Root’s coordinates since the phone call, and didn’t dare. However, hearing the bedraggled sound of these people’s steps, Shaw can’t help but hope that they are lost strangers instead of Root and the bounty hunter.

Root’s face appears first, three shades paler than usual with a line of sweat breaking at her forehead. She’s limping rather badly, and the arm draped over her shoulders doesn’t help. The bounty hunter clings to Root- also looking a little white- with a crimson flower blossoming from the mid-left of her abdomen. Shaw stands inaudibly, leaning against the car door with malice in her eyes; like a mother watching her kids try to sneak in late. When the bounty hunter looks up, her eyes resemble a deer caught in headlights.

“I told her I coulda walked on my own,” the bounty hunter tells Shaw, dirty blonde hair matted to her neck with sweat. She talks as if she’s justifying her appearance and her actions. “She insisted.”

“And I care  _why_ , Katy?” Shaw retorts cruelly, eyes ice as she wills herself to stand in place. She wants more than anything to take stock of the damage done.  _If they truly are hollow points like she’d stated earlier, the damage could be catastrophic._

“It’s Frankie,” she responds, an edge in her own voice as her blue eyes send daggers into Shaw’s skull. Shaw shrugs her shoulders without much interest.

“Think you can patch us up, Sam?” Root asks, smile on her increasingly pallid face. Shaw looks between the two of them for a wary moment, then nods. Stepping back into the cart, Shaw retrieves a medical kit, then stalks towards the terminal’s bench; Root and Frankie staggering along behind.

Once there, Root releases her, and Frankie removes her arm, using her free hand to hold her side gingerly.

“You know what this reminds me of?” Frankie asks her, a strained grin on her face as she tries to fight off the sickening pain. “That time two months ago with those dealers.” Root’s eyes light up at once, and she nods.

“Yeah, but that was night. It was so hard to see-”

“And I tripped over the  _only_  possible thing to trip on-”

“Taking down the  _only_  person you were supposed to keep standing,” Root finishes, raising a coy brow Frankie’s way. Frankie chuckles, and Shaw’s blood runs cold.

“You  _lived_ ,” she rumbles pleasurably, and Root gives the smallest laugh at the memory.

Shaw, on the other hand, shares none of their warm emotions. Instead, she feels frozen to the core, and ready to shoot anything in her path. Starting with Frankie Wells. While Shaw had been missing in action, their team had ran into Frankie dealing with a number, and an otherwise sticky situation in general. She did good work, seemed trustworthy- past the initial deception- and landed a spot on the team. What Shaw could have only hoped would be temporary employment seemed like a long lasting position- and a position with the wrong person. Every mission since their recruiting of Frankie had involved her and Root taking the world by storm. And now, with Shaw back two weeks already, Root and Frankie are still at large. The newest and best partners in crime. Shaw hates it.

Most times, she could ignore the fact that Root worked with Frankie and not her; however, when they would bring up an old mission the two shared, Shaw couldn’t help but turn hostile. This is one of those teeth baring times.

With a fatal glare Frankie’s way, Shaw sits Root down on the bench, bringing both Root’s legs up as she inspects the large carmine ring of about three inches above her knee. The wound leaks blood worse than the pipe in the station leaks water, and the sticky, warm liquid has made its home all the way down Root’s pant leg. Forgetting most of her distaste from before, Shaw sits down on the bench at Root’s feet, leaning over to inspect the damage.

“I, uh, I don’t feel so hot, guys,” Frankie says aloud, words the slightest bit slurred. “I think I’m gonna sit.” She starts towards the bench, but one hot iron- prod look from Shaw, and Frankie looks as sober as a pastor. “I’ll… just sit on the ground for now,” she tacts on cautiously, and Shaw gives her a slow nod, eyes narrowed. Frankie makes a shaky descent to the ground, then lays there, dark red fingers covering the gap in her side.

“Don’t you think you should take a look at her first?” Root asks Shaw, coffee eyes large with concern as they flicker between her and Frankie. Shaw’s tongue rolls over her teeth in annoyance.

“She’ll be fine,” Shaw all but barks. _It beats saying, 'I’m more worried about you,’ by a long shot, at least._

Without another word, Shaw pulls the torn flaps of black dyed denim away from the bullet wound, peering down at the pond of blood overflowing in her leg. Through the dark inkiness, Shaw can see small, copper shards lodged sporadically around the spot, and swears under her breath.

“I’m taking it isn’t an easy fix?” Root comments with a dollop of humor, and Shaw feels her fingers tightening around the fabric angrily. Shaw moves away, leaning over to rummage through the medical kit as she talks.

“Bullet shredded on impact. There are small pieces everywhere, and I’m going to have to get them all out. Good news is that the majority of the bullet remained intact. The bad news is that I won’t be able to get all the pieces with your jeans in the way.” From the corner of her eye, Shaw can see Root’s jaw drop the smallest bit, eyes gleaming with a grin.

“ _Shaw_ …” She starts in a slow tone, as if collecting herself as she goes. “Is this your way of asking me to take off my pants?” Shaw’s face flushes the faintest bit; but, instead of curling in with anger, she finds herself sporting a sly smile. Peering back over at Root, Shaw feels a trickle of triumph at seeing the stunned jolt in Root’s countenance.

“I actually have something  _better_  in mind,” Shaw tells her, voice tagging along with the foreplay. Then, sitting back up, a large pair of sterilized scissors are revealed in Shaw’s hand. Upon seeing them, Root’s eyes dim a little, although she voices no disappointment. In one swift motion, Shaw makes a long cut across the front of the jeans, just above the wound. From here, she brings one hand to the top of Root’s leg, using the other to tear the fabric away, leaving Root with a sizable gash in her pant-leg.

Root leans in as Shaw sits up on her heels, tweezers in hand as she plays a twisted game of operation. Their foreheads nearly touch, and Shaw can feel butterflies surging up within her, a new wave of them fluttering free with each time Root’s breath travels across her face and down her neck. Root brings her hand to the top part of her ripped pant-leg, pulling the black denim back and out of the way. Shaw feels her heart drop to her stomach before launching to her throat. She chokes on it. However, it doesn’t change the fact that Root’s hand- whether accidental or deliberate- is hovering just over Shaw’s hand, tapping it at random moments as the intensity of the moment- not to mention the blood loss- causes it to shake.

Shaw begins at the places farthest away from the impact, circling her way in. Some of the pieces barely hold under the skin, while a few are lodged deep into Root’s flesh. One is far more jagged than the rest, snagging against Root’s leg as Shaw tries to pull it free. She winces, hand instantly balling the pant’s fabric into a fist. The fabric, and the hand Shaw has on her leg. Shaw freezes at once, breath giving what she hopes is an unnoticeable hiccup, and her hand stops, midway through getting the shard free. She swallows, finding it hard as her glands swell to nine times their size. She looks up with only her eyes, just to find Root already gazing at her. She gives Shaw the smallest, most secretive of smiles, eyes saying something in a language Shaw doesn’t quite understand.

“Hey, guys,” Frankie blurts, her voice an atomic bomb in the silence. Shaw snaps back out of reflex, tearing the metal shard with her, and Root’s hand clamps onto hers even tighter. In turn, Shaw finds it even harder to breathe than before- a vicious cycle. “I get that… that medical assistance is some sorta, uh- turn on for the two of you. But if you- you could quit the foreplay an’ help me out a minute… that'dbe _great_.” Her words are more slurred than ever, voice not as strong as before and her sharp wit running at half speed.

Root’s eyes sear into Shaw, all suggestiveness gone, demanding for her to help Frankie. Now. With an internal groan, Shaw stands, surprised at how easily her hand falls away from Root’s death grip. Away from Root, even this little bit, her mind begins getting oxygen once more. Rolling her neck, she kneels at Frankie’s side, pulling her shirt up fairly far. At seeing how high her injury is, she scolds herself for being idiotic enough to not check it sooner.  _Not that I feel bad about it,_  she says to herself, settling down at Frankie’s side to set to work.  _I don’t. But I don’t want to hold up a blood bank over her either._

Looking up at Frankie’s face, Shaw finds her eyelids drooping down, head lolling over to the side as her lips begin to part.  _Don’t let her lose consciousness_ , Shaw chastises herself, medical mindset kicking into high gear.

“You really should have been covering her better,” Shaw murmurs under her breath in an aggressive tone, barely loud enough for Frankie to hear.

“She’s… big girl,” Frankie replies in a dream-like tone. “Can take care… h'rself.” Shaw feels a hotness shoot through her veins, pumping her to the bursting point with fury. She jabs her right thumb into the bullet wound, and instantly Frankie revives, eyes growing into saucers as she bolts upright, gasping in air like a fish out of water. Her eyes almost water as Shaw keeps the spot pinned, and a sweat breaks on Frankie’s brow. “I’ll work on it; I’ll  _work_  on it,” Frankie spits out, voice laced with pain. “Hell- did you  _hear_  me?” Shaw releases the gunshot wound, and Frankie’s eyes flitter up in relief.

“Don’t take it personally,” Shaw tells her, seeing in Frankie’s eyes that the situation is completely personal. “Had to keep you from losing consciousness  _somehow_.”

_____________\ We’ll Find You /______________

“How much longer do you nerds expect me to stay off the streets?” Shaw asks into her earpiece, only able to suppress half of the whine in her voice.

“Until it is safe for you,” Harold Finch answers, words crackling in and out.

“I don’t see how it benefits anyone for  _you_  to be in the field instead of me,” Shaw tells him in irritation, lacing her fingers behind her head and leaning back in her chair.

“Tell me, Miss. Shaw, how is your arm?” Shaw brings it back before her eyes, turns it around a few times, then places it back behind her head.

“Healed,” she responds.

“And the stitches?” He asks. Shaw pulls her shirt up, and is greeted by an ugly snake of stitches that slithers across the center of her abdomen, holding her together like Frankenstein’s Bride. It’s gruesome and large and weeks from being scar tissue.

“Healed,” she answers.

“How about the headaches?” He grills. Shaw thinks of the headaches- one began only twenty minutes ago. They start with the force of a freight train and the speed of Air Force One. One moment she is fine, the next she is blinded by pain as her skull splits open, the bone shards spearing her brain to complete mush. All sound magnifies and increases in pitch until it all drowns out to a high whinny, like the ringing in your ears after being in close proximity of an explosion. The pain reaches its fingers into her eyes, her ears, her mouth, and the freshly opened seam of her skull, pushing its way into her body- possessing her. Once inside, the pain slides down her throat like bile, expanding into every bone and each crevice in between, until her entire body is owned by the agony. It all only lasts a few minutes, and then it slowly flushes itself from her body like the world’s worst hangover. For the next hour or so, her head pulses and her veins flow with arthritis, leaving her stiff and terribly helpless.

“Gone,” she tells him, ignoring the throbbing that comes dully from the back of her head.

“You’re having one now, aren’t you,” he says, and Shaw sighs.

“ _Listen_ , Finch, I’m sorry I pulled a knife on you,  _okay_? I’ll buy you a muffin or something. Can I get my  _guns_  back?” She asks it like a child who is sick of time out, but Harold holds firm.

“Once you are back to normal.”

“I’m  _fine_ , Harold,” Shaw insists between clenched teeth.

“What’s the big rush, Shaw?” John asks, voice patching in smoothly. From the background, Shaw can almost swear she hears someone moaning in pain about their kneecaps. “You afraid Frankie is going to steal Root away from you?”

Shaw laughs cynically. “Oh,  _please_ ,” she responds coolly, trying to mask the partial truth of his statement with haughty defensiveness. “I’m more afraid of her getting Root  _killed_. The two of them both came crying to me over bullet wounds.”

“You saying Root never got shot on  _your_  watch?” John responds, amusement in his tone. “Are we counting the time  _you_  shot her, or no?” Shaw sits there and steams a moment. Then, once cooked to perfection, she starts again.

“All I’m saying is that  _I_  need to be out there to try and prevent it from happening again.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” John assures her. “That’s the first time it’s happened, and they’ve been doing this together for months.”

“They work rather excellently together,” Harold agrees, and it only makes Shaw more frustrated.

“ _You’re_  telling  _me_  neither of them have gotten even a  _scratch_?” Shaw asks tightly, closing her eyes tight to fight off the headache.

“Not even a paper cut,” John answers.

“Ms. Wells has become quite a good asset to our team, especially when she works alongside Miss. Groves,” Harold continues, and Shaw gives an internal groan. The thought of Root working better with someone else- as much as she hates to admit it- leaves something like misery creeping coldly into her bones. “Speaking of them, do you have any idea where they are now?”

“They left after I stitched them up,” Shaw responds, more harshly than intended. “Another number I guess.”

“Maybe they’re at a bar,” John suggests, and Shaw’s heart freezes mid-beat.

“And  _why_  would they be there?” She all but demands, and John gives a small chuckle on his end of the line.

“They do that sometimes. I joined them once. Zoe too- it was kinda fun, actually.”

“Great to know,” Shaw replies flatly, words biting.

“If we’d known where you were at, Shaw, we would have sent you a drink,” he jokes, and Shaw- despite herself- cracks a smile.

“Better’ve been something strong,” she responds, then hangs up on Reese. For an entire moment, there is silence.

“Didn’t realize I came to you  _crying_ , Shaw,” Root’s voice breaks through the silence from behind, and Shaw’s eyes burst open at once. Muscles tensing microscopically, she turns in the chair, facing Root with a straight face that conveys not an ounce of surprise.

“You sounded pretty whiny to me,” Shaw responds, and Root smiles a large, toothy grin that leaves Shaw momentarily without words. Root tilts her head upwards a second, eyes flickering away as her hair spills over one shoulder, body twisting as if she’s in difficult thought. “Why aren’t you out bar hopping with your new  _pal_?” Shaw asks her, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone.

“Thought you might want to get something to eat,” Root tells her, no longer fidgeting. She wears a smile, but her eyes are serious. “Might help you get better. And the faster that happens, the sooner you’ll be back with me.” Shaw can’t help it as her eyebrow raises, interest piqued, and she stands from her seat.

“You  _really_  want me back out there?” Shaw asks casually, all the while her mind reels to John and Harold’s description of work life without her. Root tilts her head to the side, giving her a look that answers the question in a way that lifts all the weight Shaw hadn’t known she was holding. With a sigh that relieves almost all of her pent up pressure, she heads Root’s way, still fighting to ward off the jarring pain in her head.

“Tempting offer,” Shaw tells her once at Root’s side. She tries to come up with something clever but snarky to say; yet, winds up telling the truth. “But, I uh, got a headache. I’m just gonna go home.”

“I never said I had anything against takeout,” Root responds, smug smile on her face. Shaw chuckles shortly, the lightness she feels leaving her floating and unable to ground herself.

“Fine,” is all she replies, and the two begin heading out together. Just before they step into the pooling lamplight from within the station’s elaborate entrance, Root stops her by putting a hand on her arm, and spinning Shaw to face her.

“Have something for you,” Root tells her, eyes shimmering in the dark, catching the lamplight like stars. Shaw is barely able to tear her eyes from Root long enough to see what she holds out in her hand.

A gun.

A half-smile slides up Shaw’s face, and a new surge of butterflies pillage her sanity. Shaw, after a second, takes it from her grasp, a chill running from her fingers to her spine where they touch Root’s skin.

“Just don’t tell Harold,” Root tells her with a wink. A wink that Shaw misses as she peers down at the weapon. She nods silently, then stores it in her waistline.

“Don’t tell Harold what?” Harold asks, voice no longer crackling from bad service. For a second, Shaw is confused, then verging mortified. She’d never hung up on Harold. “ _Hello_? Miss. Shaw?”

“I’ll call you back, Harold,” Shaw tells him slowly, eyes on Root’s own humored set.

“Wait!” Harold demands. “What did she give-”

**Author's Note:**

> Just want to say thank you so much to everyone who reads the prompts that I fill out, everyone who sends them, and everyone who comments/critiques what I write. You guys are so awesome; thank you so much for always sending me things; it never ceases to put the biggest smile on my face! (:


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